


Centuries

by CapPeaches



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Anger, Angst, Asphyxiation, Athazagoraphobia, Big Brother Dean, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Blood and Gore, Brutal Murder, Dark Dean Winchester, Drinking to Cope, F/M, Humiliation, IM SORRY CAS, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Insanity, Insecure Sam, Kidnapping, Killing, M/M, Mental Instability, Molestation, Murder, Non-Consensual Touching, Nostalgia, Past Abuse, Protective Dean Winchester, Rape/Non-con Elements, Serial Killer Dean, Sexual Content, Sibling Incest, Songfic, Teen Castiel, Teen Sam, Twink Castiel, Underage Drinking, Underage Sam, Underage Sex, Violence, Weecest, dean rapes them so yeah, fear of being forgotten basically, he's a mean guy, i suck at that though, the dean/jo and dean/cas in this is not really serious, underage rape more like
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-17
Updated: 2016-04-03
Packaged: 2018-03-13 09:47:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3377009
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CapPeaches/pseuds/CapPeaches
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester wanted to be known, to be remembered. He wanted to be on every young teen’s mind when they walk home alone at night, every parent’s mind when their child doesn’t come home that night or when they hear a sound in the house, and every child’s imagination when they complain about the monster in their closet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Remember Me

**Author's Note:**

> so I got this idea from the song 'Centuries' by Fall Out Boy. Dean wants to be known and remembered, and so he kills for it, thinking that being feared is the same as being known and loved. I highly suggest that if you want to be remembered, dO NOT DO WHAT DEAN DOES. THAT'S NOT HOW IT WORKS.

  _Some legends are told_

_Some turn to dust or to gold_

_But you will remember me_

_Remember me for centuries_

* * *

 

The rain fell silently, cool air whipping all around the two brother’s standing before John Winchester’s grave. Two men lowered the shiny wooden coffin into the grave, taking their shovels, jabbing them into the pile of dirt and mud, and threw it into the ground. The two brothers watched intently as their father was placed into the ground, covered in dirt, never to be seen again. The two men grunted in exhaustion, but continued their work.

Dean could hear the footsteps behind him retreating. Everyone was leaving; family, friends, friends of his father—he wanted to beat them all to a pulp for leaving so soon, for not even staying to watch as John Winchester becomes nothing but a faded memory. Of course, he couldn’t blame them, with the rain pouring down silently and the cold wind nipping a everyone’s skin, he wanted to leave too, to escape the cold, but his feet wouldn’t budge, and his heart wouldn’t allow him.

He wouldn’t miss John. He was sure that no one would. John Winchester was an abusive bastard, with very few friends, most who refused to believe that the man was a crappy person, and little to no family left. Sure, his sons were his family, but they didn’t have a choice in that matter. If it were up to the two of them, they’d get the hell out of the family.

John would never allow any disrespect or defiance in the Winchester home. And Dean, being the natural rebel he is, with a quenching thirst to break the rules and have fun, suffered the most. Though, he wouldn’t call it suffering out loud—he’d say it was nothing, he could handle it, he’s fine, it didn’t hurt. He’d always stand up tall and take it like the man John wanted him to be, and be the big brother he had to be, in order to protect Sam.

That has been his main goal, after all; take care of Sam. Dean would never let anything happen to the kid. Years back, when Sam was around the age of twelve, he was beaten, for no good reason, just his father’s pure drunken outrage. Dean hadn’t been home that night, and was out with some friends, having not come back later the next day. When he did get back, he found Sam curled up in the corner of his bedroom in the dark, hugging his knees to his chest, crying miserably, bruises all over his delicate body.

That never did have an affect on Sam. The next day, after having been treated and cared for by Dean, Sam was up-and-running, back to his normal self. Dean always found that odd; the beatings changed him entirely, they had absolutely ripped the innocence from Dean’s weak soul, and Sam seemed completely unaffected.

“We should get going,” Sam spoke in a quiet voice, no tone or emotion anywhere to be detected, turning on his heel. He stared up at Dean, whose green eyes didn’t leave the coffin, even as it was piled up with dirt, no longer to be seen. “Dean?” Sam shook Dean’s shoulder, knocking his brother out of his trance.

Dean blinked, dazed. “Yeah,” he agreed. “Let’s go.”

They passed through the graveyard as silent as the rain. The wind made Sam’s brown hair fly in every direction, eyes squinted tightly. The brothers made it to the Impala, sinking into the cold, leather seats. Dean turned on the radio and sat back.

“You wanna go out, get something to eat?” Dean’s tone was smooth and sweet; it said more than the words he actually spoke. He cared for Sam, and he needed to know that he was alright. Sam shook his head and turned to look out to the graveyard, watching as clear raindrops raced down the window.

Dean sighed, sending one last glance to Sam before turning on the car and driving as far away from their dead father as possible. John Winchester will  not be missed, he knew that, he knew his father is now a memory, a blur in his brain, no longer a danger to his life. No longer a roadblock preventing him from living his life the way he wants to.

That was it—John Winchester is gone, and now Dean’s _free_. After twenty-three years of an arduous life, painful abuse, and the ghastly insanity built up inside him over years of terrible treatment, piling so high he has broken more times than he can count, hiding behind a mask of smiles and jokes and strength, Dean was ready to begin his long-time dream.

There’s a clear difference between _dreams_ and _hopes_ ; a dream is something you want to do, a hope is something you want. And for Dean, to get his hope, he must first achieve his dream.  

First things first: he has to get Sam someplace safe, away from him. Dean knew to keep Sam away from him if he was going to begin his life-long dream, and he wanted to begin it _now_ , because John Winchester is finally gone and fuck he’s going to take advantage of the situation if it gets him what he wants.

“I think I’m gonna stay out tonight, y’know?” Dean puts on a grin, glancing over to Sam, managing to keep his eyes on the road (he wasn’t that much of a reckless driver). “Get drunk, start some bar fights, get _laid_.”

There was something about the way Dean said ‘ _laid_ ’ that made Sam uncomfortable, wrinkle his nose and laugh a little, while deep inside him he adored the way honey practically dripped from Dean’s tone. He loved Dean’s voice—through years of hardships, years of insecurity and fear of being alone, whenever he heard that voice he just felt _safe_ , so there was nothing wrong with the current feeling bubbling up inside the teen.

“You’re going to drown your sorrows in alcohol, fights, and women?” Sam asked, looking out the window with a smile crossing his lips.

 

Dean sighed. Sam was so… innocent. The poor kid, unknown of his brother’s insanity;  he thinks Dean is actually saddened by his abusive father’s death, when really Dean’s practically bouncing in his seat, screaming “REJOICE!” on the inside. “Sam…” he says, fingers gripping the wheel so tight his knuckles turn white, hiding a maniacal grin from his brother. “I’m not sad about dad. I know you aren’t. Fuck, no one is! John Winchester is dead, it’s time to celebrate. And that’s what I’m doing. Stop thinking I actually miss the bastard.”

“Sorry… I just…” Sam started, losing his voice before he could finish his sentence.

Okay, maybe he was a little bit harsh. Sam was only joking, but Dean wanted to be very clear on the subject ‘John Winchester is now only a memory, meant to be forgotten.’

Dean swallows as he sees Sam’s smile fade out of the corner of his eye, wanting to say the words ‘sorry,’ but also ‘suck it up, you should be happy right now.’ But that’s really all he wanted for Sam. He just wanted him to be happy, to accept himself and love himself. He didn’t want to come off as a compulsive, abusive, power-hungry asshole like John, but he did want nothing but good things for Sammy, and he’s got to be harsh sometimes in order to give the kid what he deserves.

Dean wanted Sam to marvel at his brother, to worship him and remember him clearly until the end of his days. He wanted everyone to be like that. He wanted to be known; to be a _somebody_ instead of a _nobody_. Dean Winchester wanted to be known, to be remembered. He wanted to be on every young teen’s mind when they walk home alone at night, every parent’s mind when their child doesn’t come home that night or when they hear a sound in the house, and every child’s imagination when they complain about the monster in their closet.

Dean Winchester _will_ be the man stalking every teenager walking home alone late at night, he _will_ be the reason someone’s child does not come home at night, he _will_ be the mysterious noise parents hear in the house alone in the night, and he _will_ be the monster in every child’s closet. Dean Winchester will be known and feared by everybody; no one will say "who's Dean Winchester?" but instead say "oh... Dean Winchester."

 **  
** ****

* * *

 

Sam always sleeps like a log, quick to get into bed, under the comfort and safety of his bedsheets. Dean has always been thankful that he never had to struggled with getting the kid to bed, but tonight was different, and Dean was starting to get a little pissed off. Sam was wide awake when Dean left for the bar, sitting in the kitchen, eating a breakfast meal for a midnight snack, reading one of those weird _Harry Potter_ books Dean thought were a total waste of time—because really, who wants to read giant novels about wizard kids? When Dean walked in, slipping on his father’s old leather jacket—the only reason he wore the thing was because John is gone and it’s a really nice jacket—, Sam had closed the book, finished chewing an egg, and said, “Come back tonight.”

“Where else would I go?” Dean asked, grinning.

Sam shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know, you might fall asleep at some woman’s house and forget about me. But, I mean actually come home tonight, as in come home safe and sober and happy, not like dad.”

“I’m nothing like him, Sammy,” Dean reassured the kid, running his hand through Sam’s long brown hair, fingers tickling the nape of his neck. “You’ve got nothing to worry about. Just get to bed, alright? Don’t let me come back and see you still reading that piece of crap.” Dean gestured to the thick book sitting on the table.

Sam smiled, making an offended expression as he reached for the book. “Hey, it’s not crap, it’s a masterpiece!”

“It’s crap.”

“Whatever, jerk.”

Dean smiled at the word Sam called him almost everyday. “Bitch.” he spat with a grin, turning to exit the kitchen, leaving Sam with a satisfied smile on his face as he picked up the book and resumed into his reading and eating. Dean hesitated as he reached for the handle at the front door, and he thought for a moment, about how this would affect Sam, and their relationship.

He should have thought of this earlier on in the week while he was planning this, earlier today when he decided to finally do it. The thought had crossed his mind many times, but he always ignored it, brushing it off thinking Sam would take it lightly.

He shook his head and opened the door; he can’t be going back on his decision when he is already so prepared and so sure of himself, of what he wants. He can’t stop, he can’t say no. He has to do this.

Dean situated himself in the Impala, checking the back seat for the chloroform (he knew no one would steal it, he was just making sure it was still in the car), reaching for the small cologne bottle filled with the hazardous drug. _Homemade chloroform_ , Dean grinned at his handiwork . Easy enough to make without your brother getting too suspicious of you being a possible serial killer—just mix two simple household liquids together, and _bam_! Serial killer starter pack.

 

He stuffed the glass bottle into his pocket, gripping the wheel tightly in anticipation throughout the long ride to the bar.

Dean practically cried out a thanks when he arrived at the bar to see it almost empty; three men standing around the pool table, a few sad looking men and women sitting at the counters, and some people sitting alone at tables, dozens of empty shot cups sprinkled across the polished wood. There was one girl, however, that Dean found very intriguing, with her long, wavy blonde hair, plump pink lips, pale skin glowing under the bar’s dim lights, looking so lonely at her table in the corner of the bar, a single bottle of beer in her hand. Dean grinned, _how pitiful, how cute_. She looked barely legal; possibly eighteen or nineteen, maybe even younger, and, what got Dean’s dick standing straight up, was that she looked too innocent to have ever had a night of sin, which means his first victim would be the innocent little virgin, and _fuck_ he was getting so hard now. He needed to make a move before he exploded in his pants.

First, he got a beer, drank it, and got another. He needed something to loosen up up, get him ready for the big event tonight. And when he was halfway through his second beer, he sauntered over to the beautiful blonde girl, sliding into a chair at a table across from her with ease. She looked at him nervously, a smile tugging at her lips as her eyebrows quirked.

“Hi.” Dean said, bubbling up with want, yearning to take everything from this girl, her innocence, her life. He wanted to strip this girl of everything and humiliate her, so that she’ll remember him even in death.

“Hi,” she said, scooting back in her chair as if to get away from Dean.

Dean’s hand slipped into his pocket, clutching the cologne bottle filled to the brim with chloroform and an oily rag he used when repairing the Impala. Time passed, and Dean sat patiently, because he knew this was just the beginning, and there was going to be so much more later on tonight, he just had to be patient.

He watched a boring re-run of golf, disgusted by himself. John Winchester did this, he sat at bar’s at ungodly hours of the night, watching golf and football and other sports Dean could care less about, eyes on some probably underage girl in the bar. He wanted to slap himself, but managed to keep a cool

Dean grinned. _Small talk_ , he reminded himself. He’s talked to girls before, he’s had sex before, he knows how everything goes. He hasn’t, however, plotted a murder before, has never picked out a victim, thought about a conversation to have that would cover up his malicious side. He was new to all of this, but not that new. He can do this, piece of  cake!

And he did. He did so well—for a moment, he even tricked himself into thinking _hey, maybe I’m actually a normal guy that you should totally not be scared of_. The girl—he’d learned her name was Jo—was laughing and sharing stories about her mother and deceased father, how she lived with her mother all her life and recently moved away because she felt like she was being treated like a precious child more than a responsible adult, which all made Dean feel even better. He’ll be taking a widow’s child, the woman would be truly alone, haunted by the realization of _some sick, twisted man killed my daughter and I couldn’t even give her what she wanted before she died_. It made him so tingly and excited!

It had been a couple of hours since Dean left the house and met Jo, two or three, and Dean was getting impatient. He had everything planned out; he was one step ahead of everything, he had this by the reigns. And while Dean explained stories about Sam’s childhood, not going deep into context about his own, he stopped mid-sentence, hand reaching over to cares Jo’s, rubbing his thumb across her knuckles, squeezing her delicate fingers lightly.

Jo’s eyebrows knitted together and she ripped her hand out of his, stuffing it into her jacket pocket. “What are you doing?” she asked, her tone shaky, like she was disappointed with his action.

Dean smiled at her, reaching for her forearm, but instantly Jo pulled back. “I’m just giving you love, Jo. Adult love. You want to be treated like an adult, don’t you?”

Jo scoffed and laughed with a scowl, biting the inside of her cheek. She stood, glaring at Dean with disappointment and surprise in her eyes. “You know, I thought you were one of those guys that respect a woman’s space, and maybe waits until they actually start dating a girl to make a move on her? Obviously, I was wrong. You’re no better than those perverts. Have a nice life with that brother of yours.”   

Dean smiled in achievement. He sat a little further back in his chair as Jo stormed off, and to his delight, and his knowing, and his intelligence, she went out the back door of the bar so Dean would not follow her and know which car was her’s, just as he expected. He waited a few seconds until getting up and following her,

She was at her car now, scrambling for her keys, looking around her surroundings cautiously. He crept behind her slowly, quietly, with a calm expression on his face, determination glowing in his green eyes. He slapped the oil rag into her mouth, wrapping his arm around her neck and pushing her body into the car. Jo kicked and thrashed in his hold, though her muffled screams and violent thrusts of her body did nothing to help her, if anything only made the situation worse, angering Dean.

He could tell she was holding her breath, knowing what was on the rag, that if she took one whiff she’d be vulnerable.

Dean’s hand wrapped around her neck and squeezed tightly. “Breathe, sweetheart.” he cooed in her ear, tongue flicking out to lick her earlobe.

Jo thrashed and struggled for a minute or two, but eventually she stopped, and her lungs gave in, and she opened her mouth and breathed in the fumes on the rag. Her body went limp in Dean’s arms, and he smirked victoriously, carrying her bridal style back to the Impala.

He watched his surroundings as he opened the trunk, throwing her body down into the small space as he prepared her hand with rope, tying knots so tight that they would soon bruise and bleed if she struggles against them. He stepped back and admired Jo’s unconscious body; a tear streak ran across her cheek and her mouth and nose were red from the rubbing of the rag against her skin. Quietly, Dean shut the trunk closed and drove off to find the nearest motel.

 

* * *

 

Dean was hit with the memory of constantly moving around, school to school, town to town, living in beat-up, dirty motel rooms and surviving off of candy bars and leftovers from restaurants they ate at three nights before for half of his life. When he entered the motel room, he dropped his bag and Jo’s body onto the bed and sat in the uncomfortable chair at the table, watching Jo, her chest rising up and down slowly and unsteadily.

He wasn’t hesitating, no. He was excited to get on with this, to take Jo’s precious life, to end her, to make her remember _his_ face in the world beyond. I was the room that made him stop; made him sit down and think of Sam, how smart the kid was, how awkward and nervous and cute, how he was insecure and vulnerable and unsure of most things.

Suddenly, when he glanced back at Jo’s body splayed across the bed, he saw Sam, his body weak and shivering, eyes closed but visible tears streaking his face. Dean almost freaked, almost jumped out of his chair to get the ropes off of his brother and hold him close and comfort him, until he realized it was just his imagination and that Jo was now awake, shivering and breathing heavily now, tears streaming down her face.

“Please let me go,” she begged in a whisper, so quiet it Dean took a minute to figure out what she had said, until finally he came to his senses and rushed over to the bed.

He grabbed her hands and tied them to the headboard, tightening them until her wrists were red and scraped, and Jo could do nothing but whine quietly and tug weakly at her restraints. It was a good idea to pour more than he should’ve onto the rag because now she was practically immobile, making this much easier for Dean.

He left her feet untied and began undressing her. He started at her belt, and that’s when she began to thrash, thrusting her hips to the side, and she yelled, and screamed and kicked.  

Instantly, Dean slapped her across the face, holding her face in his hand tight, forcing her to look into his eyes. At first, she was reluctant, eyes casted downward, deliberately disobeying Dean’s silent command. His grip tightened and she squeaked in pain, her eyes finally meeting his.

“It’s okay,” Dean’s tone was soft and he released his grip on her face, caressing her cheek as she cried silently with a scowl. “This’ll be a night to remember. Do you remember me? What’s my name?”

Jo remained silent.

Dean’s hand slipped downward, unbuttoning her blouse slowly. Jo’s eyes shut in fear.

“Dean.” she choked out. “You name’s Dean. Please… please, don’t do this. Let me go. I won’t tell anyone, I promise, just _please_ let me go.”

“No, I don’t think I should do that..” he shook his head, moving towards the end of the bed, unzipping the brown duffel bag. He dug out a combat knife and a roll of duct tape. Jo’s eyes landed on the knife and she began to cry out, and was soon silenced by a strip of tape being plastered over her mouth. Her cries became quiet and muffled, and Dean couldn’t help his uncontrollable laughter.

“Oh, don’t cry, Jo.” Dean cooed, brushing his fingers across her knee. “Tonight’s going to be so fun, you’ll remember me when you’re gone.” ****


	2. Gold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love hurting my favs
> 
> btw there's some really graphic rape in this chapter.

_And just one mistake_

_Is all it will take_

_We'll go down in history_

_Remember me for centuries_

* * *

 

Torturing her had been the fun part. Stripping her of all her clothes, playing with her sensitive spots, making her cry and whine in such a pathetic way Dean couldn’t hold in his laughter, it all left him with an excited, almost child-like smile. Killing her had been even better.

He was inside of her―right about to come inside the whimpering blonde―when his hands wrapped around her neck and squeezed tightly.

When Jo’s heart had stopped Dean felt a strong need to call Sam and tell him the amazing thing he’d just done, how he felt so much stronger and more powerful, tell Sam that now he can give the kid what he’s always wanted, he can grant Sam’s every wish with this feeling. Then he snapped back into reality and realized he has to keep this part of him as far away from Sam as possible, he has to protect him.

He’d taken care of everything so smoothly. He’d done everything with ease. Jo was now no one. Nobody would find her. She was just a nobody who disappeared off the face of the earth.

The dumping of Jo’s body was not so much difficult but a little nerve-racking. Dean drove two towns over and dumped the body in a dark, murky, river There were signs warning that the waters held alligators and poisonous snakes, no signs warning not to trespass, so Dean felt triumphant.

Dean was glad he’d chosen a different town to pick out his first victim, and another town to dump her. They’d never find her. And they’d never find him.

But something bothered him about that.

 

He had done this—he had killed someone—to be remembered. He wanted to be the face on TV, in the newspaper, on the minds of scared teenagers and worried adults. He wanted to be known by everyone, so why was he so sure that they’d never know it was he who killed Jo?

_It’s your_ _first kill_ , he reminded himself. He needed to have a bigger killcount, needed to prove himself worthy before he exposed himself to the world. Then, when he’s done enough, he’ll show himself, and people will worship him, they will kneel before him and quake in fear of being sliced in half without a moment’s hesitation.

That’s what Dean wanted.

When he arrived home, he was not surprised to find Sam sleeping in his bed. The kid hadn’t slept in his own room since their father had died, and Dean was pretty sure this little ritual would not be ending anytime soon. He knew Sam didn’t miss John, and he sure as hell didn’t. Even though Sam’s acted strange since the day of John’s death, Dean knew this was not mourning, nor grief. This was just a big change in his life.

Dean dropped his things and took a shower immediately. It was an odd relief to wipe away the smells of sex and alcohol, the small beating of the water massaging his skin. And when he gets out, he’s almost upset that he doesn’t have Jo’s smell still lingering on him.

He’d stayed up all night, playing with Jo. He liked her. She cooperated more than not, only struggling slightly, pathetically, but she’d stop almost instantly and hesitate. She had known there was no way out of Dean’s clutch. He overpowered her.

He could still feel the warmth of her insides, hear the echo of her muffled cries, the strain of her lungs as he clamped his hands down on her throat, the horror in her eyes as she slipped away and _oh god_ —blankets ruffled behind him and a soft groan was released from Sam. Dean turns, halfway through getting dressed as Sam’s eyes open tiredly.

Dean quickly switches from murderous thoughts to what he should make for breakfast. “Mornin’, Sam.”

“You were gone all night.” Sam stated, rubbing his tired hazel eyes, staring at Dean with disappointment.

“What can I say, Sam? She was a beautiful lady.”

“Gross…”

Dean grinned. He made his way toward the edge of the bed and bent down, pressing a kiss into Sam’s hair and giving it a gentle ruffle. Sam blinked tiredly but otherwise didn’t react. He only stood and followed Dean down the hallway and into the kitchen.

“Breakfast?” Dean asked, already grabbing the eggs and milk carton.

Sam shook his head. “Not hungry.”

“Gotta eat, Sammy. Don’t you wanna grow up strong like your big bro?”

Sam didn’t reply. He grabbed a bottled water from the refrigerator and walked to the table, taking a seat. He kept his eyes on Dean, as if he were trying to figure something out, skeptical of Dean’s lies (it wasn’t technically a lie, Jo was a beautiful woman, and yes, he also fucked her all night).

He swallowed. Sam can’t find out. Not yet.

Sam ended up eating what Dean had cooked especially for him; eggs, bacon, and biscuits. They ate in silence, looking over to the empty spot where John would sit on days he wasn’t drunk, passed out in a bar or an alley or spending the night in jail.

Dean remembers the first night John had gotten arrested, sprouting nonsense of a demon attacking him when in reality he attacked first and nearly stabbed a homeless man in the neck. Dean was eight. Sam was only two-years-old.

He shook his head and returned to eating his breakfast quietly, even though his appetite was long forgotten.

 **  
** ****

* * *

****  


Three weeks later, Dean sets out to find his second victim.

It’s been about a month since the death of dear old John Winchester. Sam had returned to his old ways; back to being a complete nerd, sleeping in his own bed, and talking to his very few friends.

Sam had told Dean that he’d be spending the weekend at a friend’s house, which gave Dean the perfect opportunity to bring back a prize.

He ended up at a local club a few towns over. He scanned the crowd a good few times to pick out the perfect victim. He knew what he wanted, knew what he liked, knew who would be easy and who would be difficult.

Dean saw the boy dancing, all by himself, swaying his hips, small frame moving perfectly with the music. His dark hair stayed plastered to his forehead with sweat, blue eyes fluttering closed as he threw his head back and whooped when the beat dropped. Dean saw a brown-haired girl grab his hand and hold it up. She looked young too. They screamed and danced against each other, laughing giddily.

Dean wanted that boy.

He watched him for a few more minutes, three, maybe four more songs. He’d lost him in the drunken crowd a couple of times, but he could always find him again, small body rocking and moving perfectly in sync with the music. Dean’s mouth watered.

The girl he’d been dancing with finally let go of his hands and whispered something into his ear, pulling away to latch her lips onto a brunette behind her. The boy grinned at his friend (Dean guessed they must be close) and turned, no longer dancing. He walked towards the bathroom, rubbing his eyes tiredly.

Dean hopped off of his seat at the bar, beer long forgotten, and quickly followed him.

The blue-eyed boy stumbled into the bathroom, groaning. Dean knew he didn’t want to be here as much as his brown-haired friend did.

Poor boy, he really should’ve stayed home tonight.

Dean waited patiently outside the bathroom. It didn’t take long for the beautiful boy to walk back out, and _holy fuck,_ God must be on his side tonight, because the boy left out the back exit, all alone, probably drunk, unknown of his surroundings.

Dean followed him outside. The boy turned, staring at him. He tilted his head and narrowed his blue eyes.

Dean flashed him a smile. “Hey, beautiful.”

The boy blushed. “Are you following me?” he asked, a hint of fear is his tone.

“Are you scared?” Dean taunted, stepping forward, ignoring the boy’s question. The boy took a cautious step back, shaking his head. “You should be.”

The boy tried bolting down the alley but Dean was quick to reach out and grab his wrist. He hauled the boy back, pressing him into his chest. He thrashed and screamed, so beautifully, so pathetically. He cried out an unheard “No, stop it! Let go! Help! Meg, help! Someone! Please!”

“You’re so beautiful.” Dean whispered into the boy’s ear. He shuddered, whimpering pitifully. Dean’s fingers rubbed soothing circles into his skin, dragging his hand over the boy’s abdomen. He slipped his hand past the boy’s pants and into his boxers.

The boy reacted terribly. He cried, thrashing even more. “No―no, stop, don’t! Please!”

“Shh, it’s okay.” Dean whispered, nuzzling his nose against the boy’s neck. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”

“Please… please stop.” the boy cried quietly.

Dean smiled against the boy’s soft skin He reached into his back pocket, pulling out the same oily rag he’d used on Jo three weeks ago. He held it up in front of the boy’s face.

“Listen,” he spoke gently, trying not to scare this kid too much. “if you breathe this in for me, I won’t hurt you. Can you do that for me?”

The boy shook his head, trying to pull away. Dean reached up and grabbed his small throat in his hand. He squeezed hard, making the boy gasp and squirm.

“Just breathe it in, beautiful. I’ll take good care of you, I promise.”

The boy wasn’t listening. Dean was getting bored of him. He slapped the rag over the boy’s nose and mouth. He screamed even louder. Dean laughed, nipping at the boy’s pierced ear.

“You’re mine.”

* * *

Dean knew right when he saw the boy, when he saw his lean body grind against his pretty friend, he knew this boy would be his.

He took the boy home. This precious masterpiece crafted by the gods was too beautiful to be taken in a dirty motel room, too special to have in an alley. He wanted the boy on his bed, on soft sheets that felt like clouds. He wanted his boy to be comfortable when he was stripped of his innocence.

He made sure all the boy’s clothes were off when he tied the boy to the bed, skinny arms stretched above his head, beautiful long legs tied at the ankles. Dean practically gawked at the boy’s perfect round ass.

Removing his shirt and pulling a chair to set at the edge of the bed, Dean sat patiently for about an hour, waiting for this beautiful boy to wake up. They were going to have so much fun.

Finally, the boy started to wake. His foot twitched first, then he mewled in pain, wiggling around in his binds. It took him about a minute to realize what was happening, what was _going_ to happen.

“Oh, God,” the boy choked out, lifting his head off the pillow and staring Dean straight in the eye. “Oh, God.” his eyes started to well with tears, choking on his own breath. The boy slumped over, trying to lay on his side as much as he could. He cried loudly, pitifully into the blankets. Dean grinned.

He stood and undid his belt. The boy stiffened at the sound of Dean’s belt buckle clicking and falling to the floor. He looked up at Dean, face red and wet with tears.

“No, no. Please, sir, don't do this. Please let me go.” the boy cried, tugging harder on the ropes that held him down.

Dean slid between the boy’s opened legs, running his hand down the boy’s thigh. His skin was warm and soft. His fingers delicately dragged over the boy’s abdomen. He was slightly toned, but still skinny nonetheless. Dean loved this boy’s body. “Damn, baby boy, you’re so gorgeous…” Dean praised, grinning as the boy whimpered and sobbed under him.

“Please, please, I want to go home!” he begged, wiggling like a worm. “I don’t want―”

The boy’s sentence was cut off when Dean’s finger brushed over his hole. He gasped, lurching back. “No, no, please―I-I’m only seventeen! Please!”

Dean felt his cock twitch. “That only makes me want to fuck you even more.” he groaned, palming his dick. His boxers were getting extremely tight and this kid was all too cute. His finger rubbed against the boy’s hole, making him flinch, eyes closing as tears ran down his face.

“Please, don’t do this.” the boy tried begging, biting his lip in pain as Dean fingered him dry. The boy was warm and tight and clamped around Dean’s fingers so much his circulation would surely cut off soon enough. “Please, I don’t want this! Get off of me!” he started writhing, hips flying off the bed in an attempt to get Dean’s fingers out. It only resulted in Dean slapping the boy across the face, slamming his fingers in even harder. The boy gasped and squirmed and cried like a baby.

“Keep still, baby. Fingering does you good, y’know? Hurts less when I shove my cock inside of you.”

“P-please don’t…”

A few minutes later, Dean hit the boy’s prostate. His small body froze, toes curling and mouth falling open as a loud cry was ripped from his throat. Dean grinned and pulled his fingers out. He pulled his hard-as-a-rock cock out of his boxers. He spit in his hand and slicked his dick up before pressing the tip to the boy’s well-fingered hole.

The boy’s chest heaved, breathing heavy. He looked down and saw Dean aligning himself against him. He started shaking his head, crying even more than he had been for the past few minutes. “No. no―please, please don’t do it! I-I’ve never done this before, please, I-I―”

Dean pushed in without warning. The boy’s words were swallowed when Dean covered his mouth with his own. He pushed his tongue past the boy’s closed lips, swirling his tongue all around, exploring every inch of the boy’s mouth.

Dean removed his mouth from  the boy’s lips with a small pop. He thrusted in hard, making the bed rock. The boy cried and turned his head, trying to bury his face into the pillow. Dean tsked, reaching up to wrap one hand around the boy’s throat. He squeezed and made the boy turn and look at him.

“Nu-uh, you aren’t gonna do that to me. Look at me while I fuck you…” Dean growled, nipping at the boy’s swollen bottom lip. “What’s your name, anyway, princess?”

The boy whined in response.

Dean thrusted in balls-deep, harder than he had before. The boy shouted, fists clenching. “C-C-Cas…” he choked out, throat still wrapped in Dean’s deadly grip. “Cas… tiel…”

“Castiel.” Dean whispered. He loved that name. “I’m Dean. Can you say my name, Cas, baby?” he asked, hips slowly rocking. Cas arched his back, moaning out in pain.

“Say it, baby. I wanna hear my name on your tongue. D-e-a-n.”

Castiel shook his head, eyes shut tightly. Dean slammed his hips into Cas’s heat, making his eyes open, pupils blown wide. “Say my name!”

“D-Dean!”

Dean felt something inside him click. His hips moved faster, slamming into Castiel with no mercy. He ordered Cas to continue calling his name. Cas did as he was told. He cried Dean’s name shamefully.

He could feel his climax rising up on him. Dean reached up to wrap his other hand around the boy’s frail neck. He remembers what he did to Jo, how his hands tightened around her throat, crushing her windpipe. Her face had twisted in pain, her moans and groans and cries silenced.

Cas’s eyes widened. He tugged on his bonds harder, choking and gasping for air. Dean wouldn’t let go. He was having too much fun. He loved tormenting this boy. He loved killing. He couldn’t get enough. He wanted so much more. He _needed_ it.

When Dean came back to his senses, looking down at Castiel’s delicate, beautiful face, he instead saw Sam, eyes shut with tears streaming down his cheeks. He mouthed “Dean,” and “Please.”

Dean froze. He let go of Castiel, pulled out of him, and stumbled off of the bed. Castiel coughed and gasped for air, face red with tear streaks. He turned his face away from Dean, wiggling in the ropes that bound him to the bed.

_It wasn’t Sam… It couldn’t be… Sam’s at a friends._

He closed his eyes, rubbing his temples. He looked back at Cas, who was breathing heavily and shifting uncomfortably under Dean’s gaze.

 ****  
Dean slapped a piece of duct tape on Castiel’s mouth before leaving the room. He drove to his father's grave without a second thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IM SO SORRY CAS
> 
> ALSO IM SO SORRY I CANT WRITE 
> 
> ALSO, ALSO IM SORRY ITS BEEN FOREVER SINCE MY LAST UPDATE


	3. Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm sorry i don't know how to write, frog.
> 
> also i barely looked over this. enjoy :))

_Mummified my teenage dreams_

_No, it’s nothing wrong with me_

_The kids are all wrong_

_The story’s all off_

_Heavy metal broke my heart_

 

* * *

 

 

Dean’s fingers gripped the wheel tightly. His palms were sweaty, eyes itching, every body part aching as if he was being crushed. His thighs were burning, his back ached like crazy. All of the hard juts of his hips that night were finally getting to him. He almost regretted fucking that kid so hard, but it felt so damn good, so damn hot, so damn tight.

 

When he saw his brother, his Sammy, for a mere second flash before his eyes, sprawled out naked in front of him, taking his cock obediently – fuck, no stop! He’s your brother.

 

He shook his head. Pull yourself together, Dean, he told himself, shaky hands reaching into the glove box to pull out a random CD. He placed it into the CD player and turned the volume up a few notches. A guitar riff ripped through the silence and Dean closed his eyes for a second as the sound of Ozzy Osbourne’s voice boomed through the speakers.

 

Dean pulled the car to a stop once he reached the entrance of the graveyard. The tall, rusty metal gate creaked as the wind pushed against the hinges. He swallowed, slumping forward, his head falling onto the wheel.

 

What was he doing?

 

Why was he here? Of all places?

 

Dean’s eyes close and he takes a deep breath. He stops the car, the roaring engine of the Impala fading. It was deadly silent now, save for the wind howling and tree branches shaking. He took slow steps to the cemetery gates, pausing just as he reached the lock. There was a good eight inch gap between the lock holding the gate closed. Dean slipped through easily enough, sucking in a deep breath and regretting all of the double cheeseburgers he’d eaten that week. His eyes darted across the graveyard, moving from headstone to headstone. It took Dean a while to recover from the fact that he was the only living thing here, with a pulse and a beating heart and blood running through his veins and warm skin. Everyone else was cold and rotten down to the bone. He almost smiled.

 

Pushing his hands into the warmth of his pockets, Dean shuffled through graveyard, eyes flickering in every direction, always on edge. His eyes darted from the many headstones in the graveyard. A few had some nice messages like, ‘ _loving brother_ ,’ and ‘ _a true soldier_.’ Dean wanted that written on his tombstone, along with ‘the monster everyone fears,’ or something along those lines. He was a soldier, a fighter; he’d survived years of abuse, both mentally and emotionally. He was the world’s greatest brother, he’d do anything for Sammy, _anything_. He was also one hell of a monster, having killed a useless young woman and ruined a boy’s life all in the same month. He deserved an award.

 

Dean smiled. He thought of the boy, back at home, tied to his bed, naked with Dean’s come leaking out of him, so beautiful with his flushed face. He remembered the boy’s face when he’d released his load inside of him, eyes wide with hot tears pouring out of them like rain drops. His mouth had opened wide, crying out. His boy, his little Castiel was so beautiful. Dean made it his mission to ruin this boy completely.

 

Dean’s thoughts of the boy he’d captured just a few hours ago had ceased to exist as his observing eyes landed on a shiny gravel tombstone. Etched in the stone read, ‘ _JOHN WINCHESTER. A FATHER, A BROTHER, A FRIEND_.’ Under that was John’s pathetic years he’d been alive. Dean glared down at the grave, foot digging into the grass.

 

He thought of Sam. He thought of his little brother tied to his bed, crying, sobbing, begging for Dean to stop.

 

Dean closed his eyes and shook his head. When he opened them, the overwhelming feeling of tears threatening to spill from his eyes hit him. He sniffed.

 

“Dad,” Dean started, swallowing loudly. “I hate you. I always have. I’m glad you’re dead. But, Dad…” he paused, his gaze falling to his feet. “I need help. I’m seeing Sammy. I’m seeing him in… in these situations, places he isn’t supposed to be. I―I think I’m going crazy.”

 

The gravestone said nothing. John Winchester didn’t rise from the grave and throw some words of wisdom at Dean. He didn’t appear as a ghost in front of him. He did nothing.

 

Dean’s cheeks were wet. He reached up to wipe the tears away, pulling at his hair. He kicked the vase of once beautiful red-roses he and Sam had brought to their father’s grave a week ago but were now wilted and ugly, sending it crashing into the headstone of John Winchester’s grave. He turned on his heel and left his father’s grave without looking back, just like the day of his funeral.

 

 

It was around 3A.M. when Dean returned home and got a phone call from Sam. He’d pulled into the driveway when his phone started blaring ‘It’s alive! It’s aliiiive!’ When Dean saw that it was Sam he waited a few seconds before answering the phone with a groggy voice, as if he had just woken up.

 

“Hello?”

 

“Dean,” Sam’s voice was shaky and he sounded like he was rushing, making Dean sit up quickly. “I need you to come pick me up. Right now.”

 

“Sam, what’s wrong?”

 

“I―I had a bad dream, something happened… please come pick me up, Dean.”

 

Dean swallowed. He wasn’t going to say no to his little brother in need, but he couldn’t bring Sam home with a boy he’d recently raped tied to his bed. He thought about killing the boy and throwing him in some dirty alley in town, but eliminated idea almost instantly. He wasn’t going to kill the boy, he liked him―the way his mouth opened when Dean pushed the tip of his cock in, back arched as he cried out and pulled at the ropes keeping him down, crying to go home pitifully. He didn’t want to kill this boy just yet.

 

He’d have to keep him in the cellar.

 

“Okay, okay. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

 

Sam replied with a quiet, barely audible ‘okay,’ and hung up.

 

Castiel was asleep when Dean entered the room. The boy looked peaceful under the moonlight that slipped through the curtains of Dean’s bedroom window, his long legs pressed close together, thin arms raised above his head, wrists bruised and red. His breathing was slow as his chest rose up and down. The boy was so thin, his ribcage defined nicely on his torso. Dean slammed the door behind him, making Cas jump out of his sleep, once peaceful exterior now terrified. He stared at Dean with wide blue eyes. Dean could practically smell how scared he was.

 

He took a few steps towards the bed. The boy squirmed, trying to get away. He began to sit up, but all of his efforts were stopped when Dean grabbed the boy by his shoulders and pinned him down to the bed. Castiel screamed through the duct tape, clenching his eyes shut as Dean’s grip on his shoulder’s tightened. He kicked under Dean, shaking the bed. The headboard slammed against the wall, sending Dean to a few hours before when he’d fucked the angel into the mattress.

 

“Hold still,” Dean gritted through his teeth. Castiel replied with a muffled howl. “You want my cock in you again? Huh? Want me to fuck your ass until you _bleed_?”

 

Castiel stilled, shaking his head.

 

“Then hold still, and don’t fight me.”

 

Dean reached over the dresser to grab a few Kleenexes and the cologne bottle of chloroform. He poured a small amount on the Kleenexes. Cas’s eyes followed him, widening as he realized what Dean was holding. His breathing sped up and he turned his face to the side as Dean reached out to cover his nose with it. Dean grabbed him by his neck, squeezing his windpipe hard, forcing Castiel to face him. He slapped the chloroform over his nose, keeping it there until the boy’s jittery movements ceased and he slowly went still.

 

Quickly, he untied the boy’s hands and feet from the bed and slipped his clothes back on. He grabbed the roll of duct tape and rope, holding Castiel over one shoulder, and hauled him out of the house. He struggled with unlocking the cellar doors while carrying an unconscious boy but soon enough had the boy tied to a post behind a few boxes containing some of his Mother’s things. Normally, he’d sit down and dig through the boxes―read one of her journals or look at that Polaroid of her and his dad together, holding Dean in both of their arms. They looked so happy. His mother was so beautiful, and his father looked like a humble man―but he couldn’t. He had to go get Sam, had to protect his baby brother. He left after a quick inspection of the tightness of the ropes tying Castiel down.

 

Dean pulled into Sam’s friends’ driveway, spotting Sam sitting on the porch, hugging his bag tightly. He was wearing a grey hoodie that was way too big for him and was probably Dean’s, and some sweatpants. He stood quickly as he saw Dean pull in, turning back to stare at the house before running to the Impala. Sam’s eyes closed as he situated himself fin the seat, leaning his head against the window and giving Dean a simple, desperate demand: “Drive.”

 

He drove.

 

The two drove home without exchanging so much as a word towards each other. Dean could tell Sam didn’t want to talk about whatever had happened, but he’d get it out of him sooner or later. He knew Sam was obviously upset by the way he watched the trees as they drove, a small frown on his face. He looked irritated, too; an emotion he usually wasn’t unless it was when he was annoyed by Dean pestering him.

 

Sam jumped out of the car before his brother was able to pull to a stop. Dean frowned.

 

He stopped the car and made his way to the front door, where Sam was waiting impatiently, biting the insides of his cheek. It was a nasty habit of his that always seemed to make Dean smile, but not right now, no. Right now it made Dean uneasy, a feeling at the pit of his stomach. He unlocked the door and already, Sam was pushing past him and turning down the hall to his bedroom. Dean started after him. Something happened. It wasn’t just a bad dream. Sam got over those easily. This was something more, something much worse.

 

Dean gently knocked on Sam’s door. He could hear his younger brother shuffling around the room, the sound of him opening and closing drawers and pacing back and forth. He knocked again. Sam’s feet scuffled along the floor but he never answered the door.

 

He clenched his jaw, beating on the door once more. “Sam, open the door, right now.” Dean demanded, his tone forceful and so very _alpha_.

 

There was a long pause of silence before Dean heard the lock click and the door was pulled open. Sam stood in the doorway, staring at Dean. His hazel-brown eyes were red and tear-filled, his face flushed a bright pink.

 

“You sounded like Dad just now.” Sam sniffed.

 

Dean took a step forward, wrapping his hand around the back of his baby brother’s neck soothingly, pulling him into a tight hug. Sam’s arms wrapped around Dean’s torso, hands coming up to grab at the back of his shoulders. He stuffed his crying face into his brother’s chest, dampening his shirt. Dean didn’t care. He picked Sam up and brought him to the bed, setting him down. He unlatched their arms and sat down next to him, hands still soothingly rubbing the back of his neck. “You wanna tell me what happened?”

 

Sam shook his head.

 

“Sammy, you can tell me anything.”

 

Sam’s nose twitched. He wiped away the tears from his eyes with his shirt.

 

“Like I said, I had a dream…” Sm started, losing his voice a little ways through. “But, that’s not all. You know Dirk, right? The guy’s house I went to?”

 

Dean nodded.

 

“He, um… He started talking about these girls at school. He said one girl showed him her, you know…” Sam cupped his chest, narrowing his eyes. Dean wanted to smile, but he sensed something much worse was about to spill from Sam’s mouth. “He started going into a lot of detail about it, and I asked him to stop. I was uncomfortable. He started making fun of me, calling me names, and then… then he got me down on the floor and held me down and started―” Sam started crying again, fat tears rolling down his cheeks, trailing down his neck and slipping past the sweatshirt.

 

Dean felt his fists clench. “He touched you?”

 

Sam nodded weakly. “He made me touch him, too, but he stopped when he was finished. He went to sleep. I did, too, and… I dreamed about Mom, and Dad―and you.” He looked up at Dean, his eyes sad, lips turned upside down in a frown.

 

“And?”

 

“And… I saw Mom, I saw her smiling, holding me as a baby. It started out as an awesome dream; it felt like Mom was really right there, I could almost feel her touch. Then this, this shadowy figure came up behind Mom and a fire started. I wasn’t in Mom’s arms anymore. She was burning, screaming and crying out my name and calling for Dad. Then it changed. Like when movies switch to another scene, it changed to you and Dad somewhere with a lot of trees, He was drinking and shooting a gun, then handed it to you. You looked so confused when he’d given it to you, like you didn’t know what to do with it. Then, Dad hit you, and you seemed… different. You started growing, looking meaner, with the gun still in your hand. In the dream you… you shot me.”

 

Dean blinked. “Sam… you know I’d never hurt you, right?”

 

“I-I know. I just got so scared I woke up, and I… I wet myself.”

 

Dean wasn’t surprised. He’d gotten used to the words “I wet the bed,” “I wet myself,” and, “I pee-peed on accident,” over the years. Sam had wet the bed one-too-many times as a kid and still sometimes did. He had little to no control of his Blatter, the poor kid always woke up in a puddle of piss after a bad dream. Typically the ones where he saw people die. It happened less frequently now, but it didn’t come to Dean as a surprise. He stared at Sam with a sympathetic look, waiting for him to continue. Kid’s probably embarrassed out of his mind.

 

After a few minutes of silence, Dean quietly asks, “Anything else?”

 

Sam swallowed dryly. He looked at his brother for the first time since he’d started talking, rolled his eyes and shut them tight. “I’m sixteen and a fucking pissed myself. At a friend’s house, Dean. Dirk is going to hate me now, probably tell everyone I know.”

 

Dean couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Is Sam really worried about this asshole not liking him? “This Dirk kid doesn’t seem like a ‘friend,’ Sam. He fucking assaulted you. You can’t just push that off as nothing.” He swallowed, watching Sam intently. He stared down at his hands, fidgeting, intertwining his fingers together. “Do you want to report him? I’ll bring you to a police station―”

 

“No,” Sam croaked, looking up at Dean with pleading eyes. “I don’t want to. I’m fine, I promise. He’s just a horny teenager, and I’m fine.”

 

Dean wanted to shout no, you aren’t fine, he touched you, no one’s allowed to touch you, only me, you’re mine but bit his tongue, nodding. “Come here,” he whispered, pulling Sam into a hug. Sam pressed his face into Dean’s chest, inhaling his sweet cinnamon scent. His fists clutched at Dean’s shirt, wanting to pull him even closer if that were even possible. Dean pressed kisses into Sam’s hair, whispering sweet, reassuring words. His soft voice would never compare to a thousand angel’s singing

 

“C’mon, you still smell like piss.” Dean grunted, ending the moment of peace that had Sam clinging to Dean like a leech. Sam rolled his eyes, making his way down the hall, into Dean’s room and to his bathroom while his brother grabbed some new clothes for him. By the time Dean made it back to his bedroom with Sam’s clothes, the boy was already stripping, the shower spitting hot water. Dean couldn’t help but stop and stare as Sam pulled his shirt over his head, his small yet visible muscles stretching and clenching. Sam was never one to work out and leaned more on the skinny side than lean, but he’d had time to build muscle being a Winchester, of course. Winchester’s had to be strong, had to know how to fight and protect themselves. Sam never really did fit the expectations of a Winchester but he was perfect to Dean, and that’s all that really mattered.

 

Sam shimmied out of his sweatpants, and to Dean’s surprise (and demise, as he found himself nearly falling over with an inevitable nosebleed on its way), had gone commando. He probably didn’t have any more underwear after his little accident at his friends, Dean thought, before coughing and shakily making his way around the bed. Pulling the comforter back, Dean stopped, eyes landing on a drop of blood on the sheets. He thought about Castiel and his bruised, bloodied hands from pulling at the ropes that had kept him bound to the headboard. He pulled the sheets off and threw them in the laundry room down the hall, thankful that he’d done so before Sam had gotten out of the shower and made the mistake of seeing blood and come on the bed sheets. It’d be a shame if he had to hurt his own brother to protect the fun he’d been having.

 

Dean turned on the TV while Sam bathed, though he didn’t pay much attention to the rerun of That 70’s Show, too preoccupied watching his brother’s blurred body through the clear shower curtain.

 

When Sam had gotten dressed and shut the bathroom door behind him, he’d asked, “Where’s the bedsheets?”

 

“I was scared if I kept ‘em on, you might dirty them with your piss. It’s safer this way.” Dean grinned.

 

“I’m never talking to you again.” Sam turned on his heel, making his way out the door. Dean jumped up and grabbed him from behind, warping his hands around his little brother’s waist and pulling him onto the bed. He blew into Sam’s neck, causing the boy to kick and laugh wildly. “De-an, stop!” he choked. “St-o-o-o-p! That tickles!”

 

“If you stay with me tonight,” Dean said through blows to his brother’s neck. Sam stuttered a breathless “Okay, I’ll stay!” after a few more seconds, and Dean let go. Sam hunched over, huffing. Dean patted his back, turning over to crawl under the covers. Sam followed soon after, still breathing heavily. He pulled the blanket Dean had grabbed from the hallway closet over his head, facing Dean. Dean scooted closer, pulling the blanket down to where Sam’s hazel eyes bore into his own green ones. He pressed his lips to Sam’s forehead, pulling him into his chest and breathing his scent in.

 

“Goodnight, Sammy.” Dean whispered. “I love you. Mom loves you.”

 

Sam responded by tugging on Dean’s shirt and pulling himself closer to his brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments and kudos are very much appreciated :))))

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so sorry for the unintended amount of heterosexuality in this chapter.
> 
> I am also so sorry for doing that to Jo mY BABY.


End file.
